


And Move On

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Grief, Introspection, Mourning, referenced child abuse/neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Haurchefant at the funeral of his stepmother, the Countess de Fortemps.





	And Move On

**Author's Note:**

> I consider this congruent with “Makes Three,” which introduces my might-as-well-be-an-OC Countess Estella de Fortemps, but it is not necessary to read that to understand this.

Haurchefant was not invited to Estella’s funeral, but he went anyway—which, if he were to be honest with himself, was the story of his life entire: uninvited, but there anyhow.

The service for her funeral was held in St Reymanaud’s, and while there were enough pews open for Haurchefant to take a seat, he instead stayed in the entryway, unable to see but very able to hear. The priest had a good voice, soothing and comforting, yet still the sound carried well, so that alone, looking at the stained glass, Haurchefant was easily carried off into his own thoughts, and the puzzle of grief they contained.

Yes, it was grief—and admitting that to himself had been no small feat. It felt like a betrayal, to be sorry she was dead: an act of sedition against his younger self, full of rage, most of it directed at her. How could he? A thousand times, he could remember her hard voice ordering him out, out and away, and the heat of tears prickling behind his eyes—and yet, here he was, out of sight at her funeral and still feeling the hot prickling behind his eyes. If his mother—

—No, he corrected himself, his mother did not condone hateful thoughts, and he would never know if the countess would’ve prompted her to reconsider, because—

Haurchefant abruptly stood away from stone wall against which he had been leaning, and briskly began to pace up and down its length, fists clenched. No, no—he couldn’t start thinking like that. That was something he would never, ever know, and therefore if he dwelled on it, nothing good could come. But—his grip now so tight his nails dug against his palms—but _Fury_ , it was so difficult, it’d taken him until adulthood to learn to let go… to learn how to stop grieving her.

His steps slowed, and he leaned back against the wall, bracing his forearm against it and letting his head hang. That was a new realization: that his anger might be grief, and it shot through him hot and sharp before turning to something more comforting. After all, tears were shed for sadness, happiness, and anger, they were somehow related… could it not be so, that grief bore anger as much as sorrow? It made far too much sense. When he was a child, he was angry, because he was mourning, and the countess…

Haurchefant took a deep breath. He’d known for a long time that she _had_ been wronged, and—

And he’d never made his peace with it, and he never would. He simply _couldn’t_ , and let the world proclaim him faithless and cruel for it, perhaps he _was_ , but he simply couldn’t make peace with his existence being an affront to her, he found too much joy in life to do such a thing. And so the knowledge was always curled in the back of his mind, a sort of reversed _memento mori_ —an old wound that acted up only on stormy days, only when reminded, only when he tried to find some kind of painless peace.

But Estella had been wronged. And, maybe—Haurchefant took a deep breath, and braced his head against his forearm. The sermon had reached a call-and-response now, and he mouthed along with the words. Like steeling himself before the chirurgeon began his work, he mutely recited along, and considered how his father had wronged his stepmother.

According to tidbits of gossip he’d gathered over his life, Estella had very much loved Edmont, until the day she learned of his affair—and, more the misery, that day was the very same that she’d met him, that his father had invited him into Fortemps Manor without her foreknowledge, much less her consent. And so, she’d hated him from first sight, like she hated his father’s affair—perhaps, like she had hated Edmont? No, Haurchefant corrected himself, she had loved Edmont. She’d never so much as kissed his cheek again, but she _must_ have loved him still, somehow—otherwise she would never have wept for him, and he knew she did, he’d seen it himself.

Of course _she_ never knew that he had seen—she had ordered him out yet again, but he was tired of playing outside, so he’d sneaked back inside, and was playing at hiding in the house when he heard the sniffles and sobs. Curious, he followed the sound, only to find it coming from a hidden little room, and because he couldn’t believe that so hard and unkind a woman could do something so vulnerable as weep, he’d opened the door just enough to peer inside. There she was, face in her hands, an open locket before her.

No one else was around, and even as a child he’d realized she was hiding as well. And now, thinking back on it—he remembered lingering there a while, then retreating out of fear that she would punish him sorely if he were caught peeking, but with an adult’s understanding, he could perceive a sad and sorry kinship in how two such people hid themselves away. And perhaps, the countess would have as well, and perhaps, if she had seen him there, things might have changed for the better. But then, Haurchefant knew better than to dwell on things he could never, ever know—all that could be done with lost potential was mourn it.

The service was drawing to a close. With a deep, steadying breath, he pushed himself away from Reymanaud’s stone walls, and left ahead of the procession.


End file.
